


Am I lost? I don't wanna go home.

by BeanBean8



Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Author can't name things, Author very sleep deprived, Discord made me post it, Episode: S06e04 Orders, Gen, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, I'm Sorry, Kneeling, Memory Loss, No actual violence, Palpatine is a dick, Threats of Violence, author is sorry, canon compliant??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:08:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27069877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeanBean8/pseuds/BeanBean8
Summary: Fox is all too familiar with the office of Chancellor Palpatine. He knows where he must go to kneel, and he knows when he must follow his orders.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 60





	Am I lost? I don't wanna go home.

**Author's Note:**

> I can't name things, so the title is taken from Praying by Keiino because I kinda thought the lyrics fitted.  
> Was originally going to be for whumptober bht I got super busy so I only have this and an Echo WIP.

Fox’s knee guards are worn down. Once, when the armour was shiny and new, he had painted them the vivid red of the Coruscant guard. Other parts of his armour had faced their share of violence and the grind of day to day life. And yet, the paint had remained in its place. Yet his knees were white, as white as the walls of Kamino.

There’s a patch of floor in the Chancellor’s office that's worn down. The tiles are scratched, embedded with grime and flecks of red paint that even the best cleaning droids just can’t quite get rid of. Tiles shine under the light, but that patch near the desk forever remains scuffed and dirty. Every week, a senator would recommend a cleaning service or flooring company. And every week, the Chancellor would wave them away with the same reply.

“When this war is over, and the Republic is clean, then I will remove it.”

The holonet ran a news story on it. It was spun as a kind of artistic representation of the war, of how the Republic was scuffed and damaged by the constant fight. And of how it reminded their humble leader that work still needed to be done. People watched the broadcast, captured by this tile that would one day no longer be needed, once the war was done.

Commander Fox was intimately familiar with the tile. It was where he often was, his knees scraping against the tiles and his hands braced at his sides. He knew the scratches like he knew the wrinkles upon his face, the subtle scorch marks against the black like the gray hairs that crept down his jaw and onto his chin. The tiny patch of ground was tainted, marred by burns and paint and tears.

It was there where he knelt when the Zillo Beast had wrought havoc upon the city to which it had been brought, it was there he had been when the senate had been held at ransom, and where he had been whilst the Guard had chased the rogue Jedi Padawan through the underbelly of Coruscant. Of that, he was sure.

But other memories often flickered to life in that spot, phantom screams that had his voice but no history to link them. Orders and instructions that slipped through his mind like water through the drain. Politicians, activists, Seperatist spies and Republic traitors, their faces lit up in a hazy fog of red and black that could never quite escape his mind.

Whilst his brothers dreamt of the Nightmare, of brown cloaked corpses and searing lightsabers, he dreamt of electricity and pain, and faces that he could never quite place. It was hard to sleep when the echoes of what may have been were insistent on outstaying their welcome. 

The whole of the Coruscant Guard were out in force, scouring every single exit to the senate building and heading to the maze that was the undercity below. But Fox wasn’t among them. Instead, he knelt at his spot in the Chancellor’s office, his helmet cradled in his hands as he listened. Outside, sirens wailed, their high pitched whine piercing through Fox’s low level headache.

“ARC-5555 is a traitor to the Republic, do you understand?”

Fox nodded, opening his mouth for a split second before closing it again. His input wasn’t needed, only his blaster and his loyalty.

“You must track down the traitor, use as many of the Guard as you need, take any means necessary.”

He nodded again, ignoring the buzzing ache in the back of his head, the scent of burnt copper filling the room.

“And you must execute him.”

Fox froze. These orders couldn’t be right. It wasn’t procedure. But more importantly, he couldn’t kill a clone. He just couldn’t, especially not one of Rex’s men. Rex was Cody’s vod’ika, which by extension made him Fox’s. And killing a brother, it just wasn’t something that was done.

“Sir… I can’t do that.”

The words had left his mouth before he had time to regret them. Almost instantly, the Chancellor had spun around, eyes glinted with gold and red. 

“What was that, CC-1010?”

The words were deliberately slow, giving him the illusion that he had time to think. But in reality, only panic made any sense in his mind.

“I said I can’t do that, Chancellor.”

The Chancellor reached for his belt, and all the blood from Fox’s face melted away. This must be it, he thought. Surely, the Chancellor would have him shot dead, or shipped back to Kamino to be reconditioned, or worse. But somehow, it wasn’t a blaster that he produced from underneath his cloak.

A red blade, luminous and crackling, sprung out towards him, stopping only beside his neck. It spat and hissed, blinding crimson light mere inches from him. The scent of burnt hair crept towards his nostrils, his hair. It took a few moments for the identity of the weapon to become clear. A jetii’kad, a lightsaber.

“I had hoped I had made myself clear. You will hunt down ARC-5555, and you will have him killed. After all, it’s not only your life that is on the line. I’d hate to have to replace you, however your ‘brothers’ are another matter. It wouldn’t take much for me to replace a few squads.”

The blade moved, shifting up before coming to point towards his face. It twisted, following the movements of its owner, who was circling Fox like a predator closing in on prey. The blade moved from his face, trailing only a few inches from his shoulder and down his spine.

“After all….. Accidents happen.”

Fox felt sick.

“Yes sir.”

A small click, and the room descended into the deceptively gentle glow of the lights and lamps. The uncomfortable heat threatening his back vanished, and he sagged a little, grasping at the familiar grooves and curves of his helmet.

“Make sure that your work is done, CC-1010. And return to me to report personally. I have some matters to attend to.”

In merely a few hours, the meeting would become a faded memory, red blades haunting his sleep. His mind was cluttered, the scrape of knee guards against tiled floor accompanying the blastershot and the cry of a brother. Whatever had happened that night remained a mystery, apart from the name that crept along the barrack walls and slithered into his ears as he made his way to the Chancellor’s office yet again.

Vod kyramud. Brother killer.


End file.
